Forged in the Desert Heat Page 10

  She looked down. “We just ignore it. There’s no point to it anyway.”

  “None at all.”

  “So, in the spirit of ignoring this, you do look very civilized, but we are going to have to work on your manners.”

  “My manners?” he asked, his brow arched.

  “Yes. What sort of dinner are you having at your big event?”

  “Western-style dining.”

  “I thought as much, with all the ambassadors coming from Europe. How long has it been since you used a fork?”

  “Certainly since I lived here at the palace. I did have some...etiquette lessons naturally, but it has been a long time since I’ve been expected to use any of it.”

  “You had to learn a whole new culture, didn’t you?” she asked, realizing that royalty didn’t act the same as the masses. And the Bedouin culture was different to the people in the city.

  He nodded. “Yes. But I found acceptance there. And purpose. It was a place to rest and to find reprieve from the effort of existence. On your own, in the desert, survival is nothing short of a twenty-four-hour struggle. There is no end. There is no real sleep.”

  “I had a taste of that when I was out there. With them.”

  “I know you did. I wish I could have spared you that.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t hurt. Not really. Scared, but not hurt. I was lucky.”

  “You were unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire. I don’t think I consider it lucky.”

  Except it was strange. What had happened before the kidnapping suddenly seemed the hazy and distant thing. Her whole life seemed hazy and distant. There was something so harsh and real about the light here, so revealing. It made it impossible to focus too much on the past. Or the future.

  The present was far too bright.

  “Well, as you said, this is pretty plush for a jail cell.”

  “You aren’t a prisoner,” he said.

  “Except I can’t leave.”

  “There is that.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “Dinner,” she said. “Tonight.”

  “I shall make an effort to dress for it,” he said.

  “Great.” She looked back at the fountain, the sunlight sparking off the water. She looked back at him and tried to breathe. It wasn’t easy. “Pro-tip. The salad fork is on the left. Outside.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ANA FELT SELF-CONSCIOUS and a little silly. She had dressed up. Zafar had said he would dress for dinner, and because of that, she’d felt like she should, too.

  So she was walking down the empty corridors of the palace in gold heels, provided by Zafar’s very efficient dresser, and in a red dress that came up to her knees and draped over her shoulder like a Grecian-style gown, chiffon flowing over her curves as she walked.

  She had her hair swept up into a French twist, her lips painted to match the dress. And she had to wonder why she was doing it. Why she was bothering.

  Because the simple fact was, she was attracted to him. In spite of what she said about it not mattering. It was still there. And it was unnerving.

  You can’t do anything about it. You don’t like him. And it would be wrong.

  Yes. It would go against everything her father had been trying to build up. She had a flash, suddenly, of what Zafar had said when she’d told him about her father. That he wanted to know about her, not about her father.

  But, her father aside, she had her commitment to Tariq. And she loved Tariq. Didn’t she?

  It was hard to picture him now. He was fuzzy, like there were heat waves standing in the way of her memories of him. And that was just wrong. It shouldn’t be so easy to forget. Zafar’s face shouldn’t be so prominent in front of her mind’s eye.

  And she really shouldn’t have put on red lipstick for the man. But since she’d complained about her lack of frills, more had been provided, and she hadn’t been able to resist.

  She sucked in a breath and turned the corner into the dining room. And was shocked to find it transformed. There was a formal, Western-style dining table with chairs all around it, and delicate white china place settings. It was something she would have organized for her father. Elegant and restrained, and odd in this setting because it was only for her and Zafar when it could have easily been a dinner for twenty-five.

  And Zafar sat at the head of the table. He stole her breath. Her lungs contracted, the air rushing from them, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She could only look.

  He was sitting there in a black jacket, a black tie and a black shirt. The picture of masculine grace. The picture of civility.

  Such a lie.

  Because when she looked closer, at his face, the truth was plain. He was a predator, leashed and collared for the moment, by expectation, by duty. But it was only the leash keeping him from pouncing.

  Were it not for the restraint of duty, he would be wholly unpredictable. Wholly frightening. A beast uncaged.

  He stood, and she felt light-headed. His physique was outlined to perfection in the suit, exquisitely so. He was broad shouldered, broad chested, his waist and hips narrow. Impossibly hot.

  She’d never seen such a good-looking man before. Ever. Not in the movies, not in magazines, just ever. And she knew that beneath that oh-so-sedate black jacket and shirt were muscles that would melt a lesser woman from the inside out.

  Though, at the moment she herself felt a little melty, in spite of the fact that she was engaged. In spite of the fact that she knew she wanted nothing to do with him. Her fingers itched to put her hand on the knot at he base of his throat and loosen his tie.

  Why would she want to ruffle him when he’d just now gotten all together? It was ridiculous.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I trust you found your afternoon restful?”

  Restful? She’d kissed the man and spent the entire afternoon burning. “Quite,” she said.

  He moved away from his spot at the table and went to the chair that was positioned to the right of his own. He curled his fingers over the back of it, then pulled it out. “Have a seat.”

  She moved toward the chair, never taking her eyes off his face. She sat and he returned to his own seat.

  “And how was your afternoon?” she asked.

  “It was very good. A suit was delivered and I had it fitted to me. That was an experience I’ve not had for a long time.”

  “I imagine not.”

  She imagined tailored clothing was a luxury he’d been without since he’d been cast out of the palace. “Suspending with civil, bland conversation for a moment.”

  “You felt the need to notify me?”

  “Just so you would know this isn’t the kind of thing you’ll talk about at your presentation.”

  He nodded. “All right.”

  “Are you ever angry?”

  “Always, but about what specifically?”

  “This.” She indicated the suit. “This should have been yours. Always. You should have always had custom clothes and a position at the head of the table in the palace. You should have always been here, and not living out in the dirt in a tent. Doesn’t it make you angry that you had it stolen from you?”

  And she realized in that moment that part of the reason she was asking was because she was angry about everything she should have had.

  About everything that had been taken from her because of the selfishness of others. Because of her mother. Because her mother had made her hate the girl she’d been. Had made her fold inward, smooth every rough edge. So that she would never again be in the way. Never be impulsive. Never truly be herself.

  Why was she thinking about that? She’d never thought of it that way before, and now here she was having some kind of epiphany in front of an empty din
ner plate with her captor to her right, looking at her like she’d lost her mind.

  “I deserved to lose it,” he said. “I’ve never been angry on my own behalf.”

  Neither had she. Until now.

  “I’m just saying...you expect something from life. You’re born into it, and it seems like you have some guarantee based on those beginning circumstances. Like...you’re born into a certain family and you think...and you think you’re going to have a certain future and then...you don’t.”

  “Are we still talking about me?” he asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “What’s on the menu for the evening?” Something bland, I hope.

  Any more excited and she was going to start saying and doing even dumber things. As if that were possible. What was it about this man? This place? It changed her. Made her say things, want things, feel things.

  Maybe it was being kidnapped. She’d been freaking kidnapped, by a band of desert marauders, and she’d survived it. It made her feel stronger somehow. Made her feel like she’d found a hidden well of resilience she hadn’t even known about.

  But along with that, was the desire for more. Because she’d found more in herself. Because she knew there was more out there.

  It was a dangerous desire. One that was coming too late. And one that really shouldn’t be acted on. After all, she was under duress. And stuff.

  But it was hard. So hard to ignore when everything in her felt like it was broken apart and shifted around. Like gigantic tectonic plates had shifted inside of her, creating an earthquake that wreaked havoc on her soul.

  Dramatic, but there it was.

  “What did you expect?” Zafar asked.

  “Me? From life?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t expect my mother to leave, or the way it would make me feel. Or for my father to need so much. I didn’t expect for...I didn’t expect for Tariq to be introduced, and for that union to be so important to...to...”

  “But you love him, don’t you?”

  “I...yes.” But for some reason the answer didn’t seem as true this time. Not as true as it had seemed nearly two weeks ago when she’d been snatched out of a desert encampment and taken prisoner.

  It went along with her sudden epiphany about her life growing up. With the change inside of her. What would it be like to make noise again? To stop walking so softly.

  “And yet you characterize him as an unwelcome surprise?”

  “Unexpected. Let’s leave it at that. I just...you know, I was thirteen when my mother left. I thought I would be able to talk to her about boys. I thought that I would date. I thought I could be a kid. But...but my being a kid...that was what drove her away.” She still remembered that moment, her mother, holding the broken doll and screaming at her about her clumsiness. Her childishness. “And so...I had to take care of my father and...I couldn’t be another burden on his life. I had to go away to school because he didn’t have a lot of time for me. I had to leave my home. And at school...they expected me to...be quiet. Be invisible. Then when I was home I had to be a hostess, as good as my mother would have been, even though I was only a child.”

  “Your father didn’t bear his loss well.”

  She shook her head. “No. She was always fragile, and temperamental, but beautiful, a wonderful hostess. She liked having eyes on her, liked planning parties and organizing their social life. And she made vows to him. Of course he expected her to be there. Of course he wasn’t equipped to deal with her leaving.”

  “And it was up to you to hold it all together?”

  It was more than that. Deeper than that. But she didn’t want to confess it. “Someone has to do the right thing, Zafar.”

  Something changed in his eyes, suddenly darker, hollower. “Yes, it’s true. Someone must do the right thing even when they don’t want to. Even when emotion asks you to do something differently. I never managed it. For my part, I cannot resent my lot in life because I was the cause of so much of it. Not like you. Your life has been upended through no fault of your own. And here I have only served to do more.”

  No fault? Maybe. Maybe not.

  “Guilt, Sheikh?” she asked, her stomach tightening. Because she’d seen him look blank, she’d heard him profess guilt in a matter-of-fact manner. But she’d never heard it in his voice.

  She heard it now.

  “A useless emotion,” he said, his voice blank now. “It fixes nothing.”

  “But you feel it.”

  “Another useless emotion to add to the day,” he said, adjusting the fork on the table. “Salad fork,” he said, lifting it. “Do I have that right?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking down at her plate. “Is dinner soon?”

  As if on cue, the serving staff entered with silver trays, laying them on the table before them and uncovering them. There was rice and lamb, an Arabic feast on their Western table settings.

  Like a melding of cultures. Except she felt like there was a wall between them. One that she wanted to breach now, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why. Because she should want the wall. She should want the distance.

  She was here to civilize him. Not to let him effect a change in her.

  She’d spent her whole life striving to do right. To contribute rather than take. To be useful rather than a burden.

  More than that, she just believed in right. In good. In doing good and being right. Because it was the best thing. It was the thing that kept the world from folding in.

  It was who she had to be.

  “It looks wonderful.”

  “Salt?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  “Blandness must be preserved,” he said.

  “At all costs. That’s safe conversation.”

  “Ever the hostess.”

  “Yes indeed, but then, aren’t I here to teach you?”

  “You are. So I will leave it up to you to decide, then. Is it considered safe conversation to tell your hostess that she is beautiful to the point of distraction?”

  “A bit too much like adding salt,” she said, her cheeks heating.

  “Then I shall refrain from telling you that I think your skin is like alabaster, though I think it’s true. And even if there was no reason for me to abstain from complimenting you, I should never use those particular words. Because I think lines like that only seem romantic to a sixteen-year-old. Though, I think in truth I haven’t made any attempts at being romantic since I was sixteen.” He looked at her, his dark eyes blazing. “But perhaps it is for the best I stick to compliments of that nature. Because if I complimented you as a man...well, that would, I fear, over-salt things quite a bit.”

  “There’s a very real possibility of that.” Her pulse was pounding hard at the base of her throat, and she was sure that he could see it, almost certain that, in the silence of the room he could even hear it.

  “Then I will say nothing. In the interest of safe conversation.”

  They’d passed safe conversation a few minutes ago. Maybe a few hours ago. And she wasn’t sure what she could do to get things back on the right footing. Wasn’t sure what she could do to forget the way his lips had felt beneath hers. Wasn’t sure she could forget the rush of pure, unadulterated heat that had burst through her, like nothing she’d ever felt before. Like nothing she’d ever known was possible.

  “I think that’s for the best,” she said. Then something in her rebelled, pushed her, prodded her. The deep, inner part of her, the Ana that had been repressed for so many years. “And I will say nothing about how that suit is cut so that you could almost be wearing nothing. Or maybe you’d be less indecent if you were wearing nothing. As it is, it just teases me.”

  “Now that, I fear, is not bland conversation in the least.”

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She looked down at her plate again, then back up at him. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I find myself disappointed by that.”

  “Then you’ll just have to be disappointed.” She sniffed and picked up her salad fork. “There is no salad.”

  “An oversight.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said.

  “Eat your rice with it.”

  She laughed. “I can’t. It would be wrong.”

  “That will be my goal,” he said, unapologetically taking a bit of rice with the aforementioned fork. “To uncivilize you a bit. A favor, as you’re doing one for me.”

  “I’m afraid violations of table manners just can’t come into it,” she said, sniffing and picking up her entrée fork.

  “Then perhaps we will have to think of other violations?”

  She nearly choked. “Um...I think, as kind as the offer is, you have to be the focus for now.”

  “I don’t know, in terms of needing to be uncivilized...you’re about as far away from it as I am to being ready to walk into a room full of dignitaries.”

  “Then we’ll fix that. You, I mean, not me. I don’t have any wild Spring Break events coming up so it doesn’t seem like I’ll be needing any help with the...letting loose.”

  He breathed out heavily, dark eyes bleak. “And how do you propose to fix me, habibti?”

  “You don’t happen to know how to dance, do you?”

  “I doubt I will be dancing at this event,” he said.

  “But you will eventually,” she said, “and it’s my job to make sure that you have adequate education in all matters of civility.”

  * * *

  Zafar eyed the petite blonde in front of him. She was wearing casual linen pants and a loose tunic top, an adaptation of what he often wore around the palace. Though he had shown up for their dancing lesson in his suit. He felt strange about that decision now.

  He had imagined she might revisit the red dress from the night before, but she had not.

  “You dressed up,” she said.

  “It does no good for me to learn to dance if I can’t manage to do it in a suit.”